Goldfish
In the winter, two important things happen. First, Sally and Marigold Strauss have a split. It is because of Walker Briggs. Marigold insists that Walker loves her. She can tell by the way Walker looks away whenever he passes her, as if the sight of her puts him into a state of “agonized longing.”
Sally, though, insists that Walker loves her. Someone has left a goldfish in a plastic bag against her locker. “Everyone knows that Walker’s parents own a chain of pet stores,” she brags to Marigold.
“Then he would give you something more interesting than a goldfish. God! He would give you something exotic: a guppy, at least, for God’s sake. Besides, what happened to the goldfish?”
Sally looks at the floor. She’d been so happy when she brought the goldfish home. She had pulled out one of Mom’s casserole dishes, filled it with water, then carefully spilled the little fish out of its plastic bag. “What are you going to call it?” I asked.
“Walker. Of course.”
All day she watched the fish swim circles. “He even moves like Walker,” Sally said. “He’s so sure of himself.”
The last time I’d seen Walker Briggs, he was coming out of the boys’ room. I guess he looked sure of himself. The tail of his shirt was sticking through where he’d zipped it in. He stopped to pick his nose. He gave me a bad feeling.
Now, if there was a boy who was nice-looking, it was Matt Perino. I wanted to point that out to Sally, but I was afraid she’d make fun of me.
When Mom came home, Sally got in trouble for bringing a pet home without asking, and worse, using Mom’s casserole dish. But Dad took Sally to a pet store. They got fish food and a proper bowl.
Sally talked to the fish when she fed it like she was casting a spell. “Here, Walker. Look who feeds you. The one who feeds you, needs you.”
In the middle of the night, though, I woke up to a scream. Sally had her light on and she was clutching the fishbowl. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“He’s floating at the top like a dead fish,” she cried.
I peered in, too sleepy to be tactful. “He is a dead fish.”
For two days, Sally hardly said a word. She didn’t go online and check her e-mail, or listen to music on her headphones. She mourned that fish like it was a person.
Marigold repeats the question. “I said, ‘What happened to the fish?’”
“It died,” Sally snaps. “And my dad flushed it down the toilet like a wad of paper.”
“Exactly.”
Sally taps her foot like Mom. Her face gets red. “You know why Walker looks away when he passes you. Because he thinks you’re gross. If you’re interested in someone, you look at them! You don’t look away.”
“I want my American Girl dolls back!” Marigold bursts into tears.
“I want my hula skirt back!”
Sally is getting the worse deal. The American Girl dolls are beautiful and old-fashioned like our house. They cost a hundred dollars each. Sally could never have one, not even for her birthday, but Marigold, who has several, allowed the Samantha and Molly dolls to visit Sally since last summer. The hula skirt had been dragged from the dollar bin at the Party Store at a post-Halloween sale.
After that day, Marigold always walks on the other side of the street. She turns her face away when she passes our house. Even her mom, Daisy, stops saying hello to my mom when they run into each other at the school or store.
The second thing that happens is that Obaachan finally leaves the house. This winter is the worst ever. The ground is so frozen your shoes make a cracking sound with every step. Your eyelashes freeze. Cars skid off the road. Tree limbs snap from the weight of ice.
The small cough that Obaachan has had since fall turns into a constant hacking. No amount of ginger tea and honey will make it go away.
“You need to go to the doctor,” Mom demands at breakfast.
“I will be fine. It’s just the weather. It is too dry inside my chest.”
“I am not ready to plan your funeral. You are going.”It
“I will decide when my funeral is. Of that I can promise you.”
“You always were so stubborn. Even when I was little and I wanted to play with Toshiko. You wouldn’t let me even talk to her.”
“Her father was a war criminal. And the family had fleas.”
“The Dog had fleas!” Mom checks her watch. “Oh, I’m late. My first appointment is in ten minutes.”
“Don’t worry. She’s not showing up. A house makes her not come.”
“‘A house makes her not come’? What does it do? Grab her by the leg and hang on to her?”
“Check your messages, Mayumi chan.”
“Call me Marge,” Mom says drily, but she goes to check her messages anyway.
“Grandma,” Sally says through a mouth full of cornflakes. “You’re keeping us all up at night with that cough.”
“Oh.” Obaachan seems startled. “You can hear it when you’re sleeping?”
“Trying to sleep.”
“I didn’t realize it was disturbing you all. I’m so sorry.”
“Whatever. It’s not like it’s a big deal.”
Obaachan gets up stiffly and goes into her room.
Sally rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to make a big deal about it.”
Dad bustles in. “Have you seen my newspaper?”
“Why do you call it your newspaper?” Sally says. “It comes to everyone.”
“Because I’m the only one who reads it.”
“That’s all you ever do.”
“Where is it, Sally?”
“I had to cut some things out for current events.”
“This morning?”
“Buffy the Vampire Slayer was on last night. You don’t expect me to miss that for homework?” She pulls the paper out from under the table. Squares have been cut out of the front page.
“Great. Fine. I’ll buy one at Cumby’s. How you doing, kiddo?” Dad pats my head.
“Fine.”
“Miss Perfect,” Sally snipes.
“If you two want to ride in the Dad Mobile instead of the bus, I’m going past the school.”
“Yay,” I say. I hate the loud, smelly bus.
“Not me. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that truck. Why can’t you get an SUV like everyone else?”
“I don’t want to be like everyone else, Sally. You haven’t figured that out yet?”
“Who do you want to be like, then? Bill Clinton?”
Dad gives her a dirty look. Bill Clinton used to be his hero, but lately Dad doesn’t even like his name mentioned. “The Dalai Lama.”
“Dream on.”
“You’d better hustle, Sally, if you want to catch the bus.”
“Get lost, Sally, is what you mean. And who thought up the lame name of Sally anyway?”
“It was my mother’s name.” Dad glares at her.
Sally gathers up her things and rushes out. Dad peers at the parts of the paper left.
“Is Obaachan really sick?” I ask.
“Huh?” He looks up.
“Why doesn’t she want to go to the doctor?”
“She doesn’t like Western medicine.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“We’ll take her to the doctor. Don’t worry.”
“Why don’t Mom and Obaachan get along?”
“Sometimes mothers and daughters don’t,” he explains. “The mom still views the child as a child, even after she’s grown. But relationships have to change with time. It’s hard. Like I can’t imagine you a grown-up who doesn’t have time for me.”
I smile. “I’ll always have time for you.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. Dad?”
“Huh?”
“You said you knew Sister April, back in school?”
“She lived with her grandmother just down the street from here. In high school, her grandmother died. After that she joined the convent.”
“Oh.”
Mom comes in, the phone still in her hand. “She did cancel. She and her fiancé are making an offer on a house. I can take the girls to school.”
Obaachan comes in wearing the kimono she wore the first day she arrived. “Daughter,” she says. “I will go to the doctor.”
“Not dressed like that,” Mom says.